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Summary

He watched Cap—Rogers—take in the gleaming armour on the floor, the outfit Tony had on, and the utilitarian but still fairly sophisticated interior of the medical bay. Watched as consternation gave way to creeping dread. “How long?” he asked, after a long moment. He sounded hoarse and far off. “Have we won?”The door slammed open and both of them jumped. Tony put a hand tentatively on Cap’s wrist. Cap looked at him, watchful, but more trusting than Tony deserved. He tried to keep his voice steady.“We won,” he said. “We won seventy years ago. My name’s Tony Stark. I’m Howard’s son.”

Summary

He knows many languages, too many, or not enough. His brain is a soup of thoughts and voices and words. The redheaded woman speaks Russian. The blond man speaks English. English is a strange one. There is this word 'hurt,' which is sometimes about transferring pain. He hurts the blond man. Subject, verb, object. But sometimes the pain doesn’t go anywhere. He hurts. Who hurts?

Summary

Barnes is now glaring at him for some reason. It's somewhat terrifying but also, oddly, a little reassuring— because that's emotion right there, which means there's still somebody behind those eyes. Somebody who seems to think Sam is being a bit slow on the uptake. "Time parameters exceeded. Mission failed."